


Welcome to the Game

by horseshoecrab (cicadas), Laughing_Fox



Category: Welcome to the Game, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Adrenaline, And a lot of the hurt, Blackmail, Cry Has Social Anxiety, Electrocution, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Needles, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plotbunnies, Poor Cry, Psychological Torture, Sleep Deprivation, Solitary Confinement, TW: emotional/psychological abuse, Threats of Violence, Torture, Welcome to the game - Freeform, YouTubers - Freeform, and a lot of them, but without the comfort, tw: anxiety attacks, tw: needles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:54:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/horseshoecrab, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laughing_Fox/pseuds/Laughing_Fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack finds himself tied up and blindfolded, the overbearing smell of blood assaulting his nose as his captor taunts him, detailing all of the terrible tortures the Irishman will be forced to endure in this, the Red Room.<br/>And he accepts it all willingly.<br/>Why?<br/>Because if he doesn't, then those in the rooms beside him will be on the receiving end of the maniac's 'tools of the trade'.</p>
<p>(Influenced by the 'horror' game, "Welcome to the Game")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Player One

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing here but the story's plot.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5JN-mWDCH5M  
> Here's the video that prompted this story.  
> Also, I've written this as though Jack did not post the second part of this series- Simply because - plot? Amirite? Probably not, idk.  
> Now, please keep in mind that I'm not the best at torture, but I'mma give it my damndest try, so I hope y'all enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REWRITTEN !!

 

 

"Aint nobody comin' into my house. Tryin' ta kidnap me. I- Oop. No. Nobody, I'm safe."

A tsk of laughter and the click of a mouse correlated with the movements onscreen (almost instinctual after so many years of editing), as Jack (or, "Jacksepticeye", as commonly known online) added the small end card to the next day's video.

Rendering and exporting the video would take up the next hour and a half of his night, so sticking around and waiting for it was so far out of the question he didn't even dwell on the possibility of doing so.

Standing up to pop his back and stretching his arms out before him, he felt the warmth from his monitor caress his fingertips and knew it was time to finish up, the judgemental "4:12 AM" on the bottom right corner of his screen glaring at him continually.

Plucking the specialized orange editing glasses off his face and folding them gently on the desk below his camera, he grabbed his regular glasses and slipped them on, having no need to wear them, but not wanting to hold them in his sweaty palms.

Yawning large enough to send a shudder through his stiff shoulders, he dropped back in his chair with a heavy groan, moving it back at the force, just far enough to make the cord of his headphones catch and pull them half off his ears.

Taking them off fully, he tucked the cord beneath them and left them beneath his keyboard.

His phrase 'sleep is for the weak!' filtered into his head and he laughed, rubbing at his temples and closing down any and all unneeded programs on his computer, hair falling over his face teasingly.

"And I am very weak." He murmured to himself, pushing his hair back out of his eyes, though the lack of headphones to keep it in place just meant it fell forward again almost instantly.

 

The still-damp tips of his fringe - undried from when he'd showered hours before - were cool against his forehead as they hit the lenses of his glasses. The smudges they left went unnoticed as he left the room, hand fumbling at the light switch as he did so. He headed through to his bedroom, shucking off his shorts before throwing himself onto the bed, arms splayed out in front of him and feet barely hanging off of the edge.

Jack toed his shoes off, his socks slipping off with them. The duvet was folded up at the end of his bed, so he used his feet to wriggle under and kick it up and over his lower half, pulling it up with loose arms once it was high enough to reach.

He hadn't brushed his teeth, he realized, but his head was groggy and his eyes stung, so he rolled onto his side and tucked his arms up and around his pillow, sore fingers clutching at the soft fabric.

The darkness of the room seemed to envelop him as he drifted off to sleep, many late nights of stockpiling videos catching up to him.

 

Soon enough, Jacksepticeye was dead to the world.

 

\--

Hours passed as a lone figure stood in the doorway of Jack's bedroom, a small penlight pinched between his gloved fingers and a freshly used lock-picking kit settled comfortably in his jacket pocket.

 

_Soon._

 

\--

Uncomfortable, the green-haired Irishman groggily opened his eyes before squinting them quickly, the late afternoon sun shining through the crack in his curtains and furiously trying to burn out his retinas.

Jack rolled to the side, groaning as he realized he'd forgotten to set his alarm.

God, what time was it?

He looked at the clock on the wall.

2:15 PM

For fuck's sake.

Eyes heavy with sleep, he reached out and grasped the spotted pillow on the other end of the double bed, hugged it to his chest and brought his knees up around it before falling back to sleep.

The quiet footsteps echoing throughout the top story of his house went unnoticed as he slipped back into the bliss of sleep.

\--

 

Having researched Jack's upload schedule prior, the masked figure sat by the YouTuber's desktop before uploading the second video of that day, ironically, it was of a video of the game that his boss had tracked the Youtuber through, his need to keep a sense of normality among the YouTuber's large fan-base was at the top of his priority list.

Finished with the computer, the man picked up the DSLR camera that sat upon its stand behind the desk and placed it in the center of the room, clicking 'record' as it filmed the doorway. Returning to his post outside of Jack's door, he fiddled with a small canister of Chloroform that lay hidden in the depths of his left pocket and the rag twisted around the fingers of his right hand.

  
A slow twenty minutes passed before Jack finally pushed himself off of the bed, tossing his pillow back against the metal headboard. It fell back onto his face, muffling a groan.

Rubbing his eyes and facing away from the door, Jack made his way around the bed, pulling open the curtains and winding one of the windows open, because frankly, the room  _smelt_ like boy, and it wasn't a nice smell to wake up to. This allowed the intruder time to slip out of sight and back toward the YouTuber's 'Gaming Studio'.

 

Pulling the plastic Chloroform bottle from his jacket pocket, he unscrewed the lid with unsettlingly well-moisturized hands and doused the rag in the liquid, the loud swearing of the Irishman echoing down the floor as he realized that he'd missed his oh-so-important video deadline.

Jack rushed through the open door, but worry stopped him dead in his tracks, almost pitching him forward as his feet stopped their hurried entrance. Throwing an arm back to grab the frame of the door and steady himself, Jack's eyes widened, a bundle of terror eating away at his insides as he stared.

  
His camera was in the center of the room.

 

Yeah, was tired last night, but he wasn't  _so_ tired that he might have moved his camera that far and _forgotten_ about it.

Gaze traveling past the unsettling position of the camera, he spied his channel's page displayed on his desktop monitor.

 

Two new videos had been uploaded.

 

Eyes wide and hands clammy in terror, he moved forward to grab his phone off of the desk and call the police, but he'd barely taken a step before something pressed firmly against his back.

A sturdy arm snaked around his neck and he was stopped dead, yanked back in a headlock so fast his forward foot missed the ground in its next step and a violent wheeze was forced past his blocked windpipe. Sweet, slightly alcoholic fumes assaulted his nose and settled on his tongue, his eyes watering as though he'd squirted citrus in them. His skin ached where the cloth was forced against his face and no amount of thrashing and hacking would get the burning air out.

The arm around his throat slid down to his chest, stopping his attempt to wrench himself away and pulling him flush against his attacker, giving him the opportunity for air and forcing him to breathe in the chemical's that dosed the material cloth that was smothered up against his mouth and nose.

  
The thick fumes of the Chloroform made his stomach churn.

Bile rose in his throat like hot wire.

He couldn't breathe and his head was pounding.

 

Feeling his victim's movements begin to slacken, the intruder hoisted the shorter male closer to the camera, dropping the rag to the floor as he gripped his chin and forced his half-lidded gaze groggily into the camera.

 

Before the man reached around to switch off the camera, he felt a shudder ripple through his victim as he tried once more to fight back, his movements growing more sluggish by the second.

Clawing feebly at the arm constricting around his chest, Jack felt his eyes lose focus and his heart drop to the pit of his stomach when he tried to stand, his chemical-hazed mind making the world seem to tilt as he fought against the chemical seeping through him.

The man holding him chuckled as a weak kick connected pathetically with his shin before Jack lost all ability to stand and dropped to his knees like a sack of potatoes, ungraciously left to hit the floor by the masked man before the camera was shut off and placed back in its original place behind the desk, the overhead lightbulb glinting gently off of the lens, a perfect picture of innocence, a juxtaposition to the man on the floor clutching his stomach and gasping for air with tears in his eyes.

 

The intruder pulled the memory card from its slot, dropped the small black card into his pocket, and waltzed over to kneel by Jack's sluggishly twitching form.

 

"It's Jack, right? Big fan." Rough hands gripped under his armpits, ready to drag him out to the van.

Blue eyes - almost black with how dilated his pupils were, looked at him - glossy with tears and more than half hidden behind his eyelids.

"Welcome to the Game."

 


	2. The Red Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introduction?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REWRITTEN !!

Agony lined the walls of his veins and fog addled his mind, making the floor he lay on look as though it were swaying gently, the far corner of the room where the cold granite floor met the padded walls blurry and out of focus.

A growl in his stomach brought the taste of sick up into the back of his thought, the memory of chemically manufactured sweets making him heave, though there was no food in his stomach to bring up.

The only light in the room was swaying above him, making his shadow move in, and out.

 

In...

 

And out again.

 

It swayed in time with his heartbeat, pushing blood past his ears in a steady rhythm.

 

Too loud.

Too loud.

 

Pulling his legs up to his aching chest felt like he was pulling the weight of the world with them, and hiding his head in his arms supplied a new kind of agony, but he managed, the dark bliss it allowed his eyes the only segment of relief he could grasp.

 

His breathing was shallow and raspy as lay, motionless once more. A dull, throbbing pain deep seeded in his temples, trying to escape.

He lay like this for a few minutes.

Was it minutes?

It could have been an hour.

The line between awake and asleep was so blurred, and with dreamless periods of sleep, he had no possible way of knowing.

The squeal of metal on stone and the vibrations through the surface on which he lay pulled him into the land of the living, coaxing his battered and bruised body into movement, his arms coming under him to prop him up, his legs all but limp behind him.

A quiet digital click sounded from the corner of the room, it's echoes quashed by the padding on the walls. 

The spot where his hip jutted against the rough ground soon became enough of a reason for Jack to get to his feet.

Like a newborn deer on it's first legs, Jack stumbled, caught under the arms by a much larger figure.

 

Accepting the help for what it was and looking no further, he was lead to a chair and dropped into it.

Gritting his teeth and biting his tongue, he squinted at the man who'd grabbed him, catching only a glimpse of the back of his coat as he walked away, moving to the corner of the room where he'd first heard the strange click.

Placed directly underneath the light now, it was much harder for Jack to see anything outside of its halo of light.

It was once his eyes had finally adjusted that he could make out what it was he was trying to stare at.

 

It didn't take a genius to figure it out.  
And for someone who sat in front of the very same device, day in and day out, he needed not the word that came from the tall silhouette beside it.

"It's a camera, Sean."

 

If his stomach hadn't been in knots before, it sure as hell was now.

Fear.

Horror.

Agony.

Sorrow.

Hopelessness.

At the sound of his name, all of his emotions broke through their figurative barrier and crashed headfirst into Jack, catching him up in there fury and drowning him in their sheer strength.

Tears welled forth and spilled down his face, falling into his lap unimpeded.

Jack was terrified.

Both hands came up to grab at his bruised throat in realization at what had really happened.

He'd been kidnapped.

Snatched straight out of his own home.

 

The man in the corner moved, crouching down beside the camera and swiveling the LCD side screen to face Jack, reflecting back at him the pure emotion on his face, the specs of blood at the edge of his mouth, the tears in his eyes.

Other then the quirk of an eyebrow, the expression on the man's face remained impassive as he approached the fear-bound Irishman.  
Even if Jack hadn't been seated, the man would have towered over him still.

Thick, heavy scars - set in the skin and clearly not fresh - adored the man's throat, peaking up out of the black crew neck over the collarbone and snaking its way under the upturned collar of his heavy coat. Following it with his eyes up and behind his left ear and over his left eye, Jack had no doubt the man was half blind.

 

"You've been asleep for many hours, and frankly I'm disappointed it took so long for you to wake up." 

 

Cupping Jack's chin in his hand, he tilted his head back to meet his eyes, the scarred of which was so pale it was almost clear and the other a hazel so intricate it could have been considered beautiful had it been on literally any other human on the entire fucking planet but this one.

Feeling the wooden back of the chair bine into his spine, he felt his breath catch and fought to keep himself still, though he was shuddering like a leaf.

Shrinking down into the chair was a bad decision and the fingertips digging into his cheekbones was the warning.

Much too close for comfort, the taller brunette's minted breath swept over him, causing him to crinkle his nose and turn his head, squeezing his eyes closed, as though that would be of any help.

Flinching as the man’s faux leather tailcoat brushed against the top of his leg, Jack barely had a chance to utter a squeak before the bruise around his throat flared up in pain once more.

 

 

Stumbling almost drunkenly as he was pulled forcefully off the chair by the neck, Jack would have screamed had his larynx not been all but crushed in the firm grip.  
He hadn't even the chance to anchor his nails into the man's wrist before he was thrown again to the floor in front of the camera, the jagged rock tearing a thin hole in the left knee of his jeans.

Clutching desperately at his collar and dragging in shuddering breaths, Jack's eyes darted over to his right, finally taking in the thick metal door - the source of the squeal of metal he'd heard earlier - and before his mind could act, his body decided his next movements for him and he bolted towards it.

But he wasn't quick enough.

Though the zip of his marron jacket was undone, the hand that caught it by the hood had enough strength to hinder his momentum, wrenching his shoulders back and pulling him close enough to grab the back of his neck, finger's either side of his trachea, pressing warningly.

Fingers slid down the back of his neck and twisted themselves in the collar of his 'BERLIN' shirt, pulling the tight material against the base of his neck, tight enough to case discomfort and allow breathing.

 

Just.

 

The other hand grasped his left shoulder and left nail imprints so hard in the dip above the collarbone that Jack felt weak at the knees and couldn't help but let out the ghost of a whimper, teeth biting down on the insides of his cheek.

The camera went ignored until the man holding him spoke up.

"What is it you say? Top of the morning?" He taunted, hand moving from shoulder to chin.

 

 

 

"See those?" 

 

It was hard to miss the small number on the bottom right of the LED screen, but Jack didn't answer.

 

"They're your audience. All big fans of my work, hmm."

 

The more he talked, the more certain Jack was that the man was of Russian background, though the accent was weak.

 

"Though I suppose you wouldn't know who I am, hmm?'"

 

He doesn't want to know-

 

"They call me Cain. Mmm, but don't fret, it's not just me they're here to see."

 

The numbers crawled into the hundreds.

 

"They're all  _very_ interested in you. You  _and_ your friends." At this, Jack’s eyes widened and he frantically lurched away, an angry curse escaping his sore throat as he darted away from the man’s grip, finally able to make it to the door.

 

“Oh dear...” He sighed, exasperated.

 

"So predictable."

 

Following Jack into the storage room he'd just ran into, it took no effort to grab the water bottle full of Chloroform and a rag off of the metal shelf inside the room.

Bringing the freshly doused cloth under Jack’s nose just as his eyes spied the second door hidden behind the end of a shelf, Cain wrestled him to the ground and dug his knee into his lower back, pinning him down until the fumes knocked him out a second time.

 

Grabbing his wrist, he dragged the body back into the middle of the room and left him there, in plain view of the camera before he left the room, pulling the heavy door closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OoOOooOoHhh  
> Who's the 'Other friend'?
> 
> Brownie points for whoever can guess.  
> Also yes.  
> Cain is a dick.


	3. Player Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Player Two.

Settling down at his computer, YouTuber Cryaotic ran a hand through his hair, leaning forward and resting an elbow on the edge of his desk, fingers of his left hand tracing the line of his glasses while his right manoeuvred the mouse, scrolling through sub-Reddit after sub-Reddit as his eyes flew across the words on the screen, eager to find a decent horror story for his next ‘Cry Reads’. He’d been meaning to make one over a week ago, but the internet seemed to be in the middle of a horror story drought, providing him with only scraps of tasteless garbage to sort through before he could find anything good.

Sighing heavily as his eyes skimmed over the sixteenth cliché tale that hour, Cry rolled his eyes, leaning back against his chair and closing his eyes as he yawned, arms crossed over his chest and hair hanging over his face.

Letting out an over-exaggerated sigh, the gamer rubbed at his temples, pulling the thin wire-framed glasses from his face, he began to clean them on the hem of his shirt as he pushed himself out of his chair, nudging it under the desk with his foot and leaving the room, flicking the light switch off on the way.

Entering the kitchen, Cry replaced his glasses, and pulled open the fridge, before leaning down, an exasperated frown etched into his face as nothing but empty shelves and too-old fruit started back at him.

Throwing the door closed, he grasped a clear glass from beside the sink, half-filling it before taking a sip, elbows leaning against the bench top.

Blinking slowly, the YouTuber’s gaze followed the line of his nose into the cup of water, before blowing into the liquid and grinning in bored amusement at the bubbles that splashed gently across his face.

Pouring out the remains of the water into the sink, Cry sighed as he moved to return to his computer, throwing an almost disappointed glare at the empty fridge as his hand found its way into his hair again.

Now standing in the doorway to his room, the male looked over his computer, gaze drifting down to the off light switch beside him.

Shrugging simply and really in the mood for a good scare, he left the room dark, closing the door behind him and returning to his desk and pulling up Reddit once more, fingers flying across the keyboard as he finally settled on one that looked to be fairly promising.

The house was dead silent as Cry read, thoroughly immersed in the –admittedly terrifying- story presented to him on the screen.

Finishing the story with wide eyes, a shudder ran through him, a queasy feeling settling in his stomach.

Now crouched in the light emitted from his monitor, the YouTuber began to severely regret leaving the light off, the darkness of his room feeling like it was gently caressing his form and the creaking and groaning of his house settling setting him on edge.

Inhaling sharply through his nose, he pressed his hands against the edge of his desk, leaning back as he pushed away, his chair rolling back and coming to a stop a few feet from the door.

Reaching out, his fingers barely brushed the switch, so, with a huff, he stretched back, managing to snag it with his finger, relishing the light as it flooded the room, the darkness receding with his paranoia rapidly.

Resting his head against the back of the chair, he was about to close his eyes once more before a rustling noise from behind him made him lurch.

Before he had the chance to turn, his headphones were tugged off of his head, clattering to the floor beside him before its cord found itself looped twice around his throat, the sudden tugging at the cord around his throat wrenched him back out of his chair, a feminine giggle sounded from behind him as his hands flew up to his neck, slipping the fingers of his left hand beneath the cord.

Spinning around, he barely caught a glimpse of his attacker before they forcefully ripped the cord back, slamming him into the wall behind him, a choked gasp tearing its way from his throat.

Standing in front of him, with the ends of the cord wrapped around her gloved hand, stood a woman, her vibrantly dyed red hair hanging over her face and a sardonic smile on her tanned face.

Before Cry could do so much as blink, any air he managed to breath earlier was now knocked from him as he doubled over, her knee connecting solidly with his stomach, drawing a pained whimper from Cry as his vision fluctuated violently, sliding down the wall to the floor.

Struggling to keep his eyes open, he threw his hand forward blindly, gripping the woman’s thin wrist and throwing her at the wall beside him, using the force to scramble to his feet, her grip falling slack long enough for him to untangle himself as he dashed from the room, throwing open the door and sprinting with the grace of a drunk seagull into his bedroom, slamming the door open before throwing open his draw, a sickening feeling of dread settling in his stomach as his oxygen deprived mind sluggishly registered the fact that his gun wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

“Looking for this, sweetie?” Came a sickeningly sarcastic feminine taunt from behind him as the unmistakable ‘click’ of a gun safety echoed through his small room.

Slowly stumbling to his feet, Cry turned, arms above his head and a frown on his face at the woman waltzed forward, aggressively slamming the barrel of the gun into his sternum, coaxing an exasperated sigh from him.

Eyes darting from the gun to the blue-eyed woman holding it, the YouTuber grinned.

“Damn. I was going to use that to threaten you with, but I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that the clip’s empty.” He stated, lowering a hand a placing a finger on the barrel, slowly pushing it away from his chest and off to the side.

Breath quickening as the woman raised a sceptical eyebrow, he knew he didn’t have much time until she called his bluff.

Knocking his gun out of her hands completely, Cry moved to slam into her, not expecting her to grab his wrist and in an almost mirror move to what he’d done to her mere moments ago, threw him past her, now grabbing the back of his collar and pulling him back as he fell forward, the two opposing movements throwing him so far off balance he could barely see straight.

Dropping into a stance, she used what little time she had to pull him back again, slipping a foot behind his legs as he tripped back, crashing into the floor, the back of his head connecting harshly with the floor, a scream tearing through his throat and past his clenched teeth.

A sharp pain flew through Cry’s body as the woman immediately straddled his chest, knees pressing painfully into his ribs as she collected both of his wrist in her left hand above his head, her right hand flew down to the already bruising welt along his throat and tightened, her slim fingers digging into the skin and forcefully dragging choked screams from him as he thrashed about, legs wildly trying to attack her.

Hating the pained whimpering and angry screams that were forced out of him, Cry struggled to move, the woman, despite being a few inches smaller and notably thinner, had him well and truly pinned, not at all phased by his continuous thrashing.

Black began to dance across his vision as the woman’s hand stubbornly crushed his windpipe, the blood rushing past his ears the only thing he could hear as his muffled screaming ebbed down to breathless whimpers, his movement falling slack and his limbs feeling weighted, the lack of oxygen taking a huge toll on his body.

Eyes rolling up and jaw unclenching, Cry fell still, allowing the woman to release her hold and get to her feet, brushing herself off calmly.

“It’s a shame really. Such a pretty thing like you having to be presented to such a barbaric audience.” The woman grinned, hoisting the slack figure up and laying him loosely over her shoulder.

“Oh well. If it’s any consolation, your screams are by far my favourite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OoOoh.  
> Guess who'll be making an entrance in the next chapter?  
> Lol jk, no one, but it's going to be 'ghostofme's' first chapter!  
> Get excited!  
> It's feckin' fabulous!  
> 


	4. Privacy

When Cry awoke, he immediately recognised the room he was in as not his own.

The intense smell of bleach filled the air, seemingly radiating off the walls, tainting every breath he took. He sat up gingerly, the walls around him bulging in and out as he did so, trying to focus on what little he could see in the dark. The walls seemed to be cushioned with some sort of foam, same as the floor he sat on. A padded cell? Was he in an asylum? Surely those rooms didn't exist outside of TV.  
He stood up on shaky legs, head pounding, an ache pressing into his brain like someone had kicked him in the back of the skull. There were no windows, no doors, no anything in the room that would tell him where the hell he was. He could feel his anxiety pressing at him like a blunt knife.  
  
His legs were jelly underneath his body weight as he stood, hands running up the fabric of the wall behind him. s Cry made a move toward the wall opposite him, a bright light switched on out of nowhere, temporarily blinding him. He reached a hand up to cover his eyes from the assaulting light and his fingers touched bare skin. His glasses were gone.  


A clear voice cut through the silence. “Are you looking for these?”

  
Cry’s head whipped up hard enough to hurt.

A dull ache in the muscles in his neck flared up, but he ignored it. There was someone in the room with him, and he hadn’t realised.  
“You were out longer than we expected, but I guess you never can tell how someone will react to a sedative after the oxygen has been choked out of their system, can you...‘Cry’?”  
  
From the corner furthest from Cry, a man around his height walked toward him with a confident stride, holding a pair of thin-framed glasses in his outstretched hand.  
  
When the man moved to put the glasses on Cry’s face, he just stood frozen, unable to move away. The cold hands of the other man lingered at the sides of Cry’s face for a moment before pulling away. Then he smiled.  
  
“You’re probably confused as to where you are, and why you’re here.” The man continued, pacing in front of Cry, “The first thing I will not answer, so please don’t ask me. It’s annoying. The second, however,” He stopped moving and smiled excitedly.  
“That’s the fun question.”  
  
Cry opened his mouth to say something, anything that would get him answers as to how the fuck this psycho found his address and why. Before he could get a word out, however, the man was speaking again.  
  
“You have a desk chair behind you, Mr. Cryaotic, sit down. Good. Now, I am going to talk, and you are going to listen, or there will be consequences. You may not understand this at first, but everything you do has consequences, Cry. Let’s think of it as an action and reaction type deal, shall we? For example, if you try to act out, I’ll send someone to pay Cheyenne a visit.” The man stopped and grinned as he noticed Cry’s jaw clench at the mention of his girlfriend’s name. “What? You really think if we found you, the reclusive ‘Cryaotic’, we couldn’t find where your girlfriend lives? Your best buddy, Russ? Or even Jund? His house is not too far from yours, isn’t it? Nice place he has there.”  
  
While the man talked, Cry could feel that knife of anxiety press deeper into his skin, telling him to run away from this insane person. He wanted to move so badly, but once he sat down in the creaky office chair he felt frozen. His hands gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles were white to stop his hands from shaking. He needed to calm down. He needed to get out of here. He needed-  
“Excuse me? Am I interrupting some sort of internal conflict here? I do believe I told you to listen,” The tall man’s gaze turned cold as he stared at Cry’s face, happy with the nervousness he could see in his features. “Or there would be consequences.”  
  
“You’re here to make some important decisions, Cry. If you make the right ones, I won’t destroy those years of anonymity you’ve enjoyed for so long. If you make the wrong ones, I’ll make sure you never know the meaning of the word ‘privacy’ again.”  
  
Cry’s mind was reeling. He needed to say something, anything, to make this guy let him go. Without fucking his life up first. The first thing that came to his mind was, “Look, I don’t know what exactly it is you want from me, but whatever sick fantasy you have planned out, I can’t fulfill it!” His throat burned with each word he forced out, and he spoke without any of the confidence he hoped his voice would carry, making him feel smaller than he already did under the gaze of the intimidating man. He hated it. He hated what was happening, and he hated that he had no control over the situation even more.  
  
The man smiled. “This isn’t a fantasy, Cry, but you can - and you will - fulfill it. Whatever it is I ask you to do you will do it, or it will hurt. Believe me when I say that. Now, behind you on the desk is a microphone. Turn it on.”  
  
Cry winced as he turned his head to see the outdated-looking microphone on the table, placed further towards him than the three blank computer monitors were. He wondered what they were for for a moment before remembering to switch the microphone on and hastily turning back to face his kidnapper.  
  
“Good job, Cry. See, following instructions isn’t so hard, is it? Now, I would like you to turn your chair to face the microphone. Go on.” The man signaled his hand for him to turn around, and Cry did so hesitantly. He did not want his back to this man, but the threat of what would happen had him swiveling his chair despite his reservations.  
  
Once Cry was facing the other way, the man placed his hands on the back of the chair and leaned in. “Apologies for never introducing myself. I’m Cain. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”  
  
“Now,” The man, Cain, continued, “I have a choice for you. Your first decision you’ll have to make. I have two syringes here, one containing a sedative, one containing a stimulant. All you need to do is pick one.”  
  
Cry heard a tap and looked beside him at the two syringes being placed on the table. Inside both was the same amount of a clear liquid, one having a slightly yellow tinge to it. Cain held two long hypodermic needles in his hand, twirling them between his thin fingers like they weren’t about to transfer god-knows-what chemical into someone’s body.  
  
“It’s a simple choice, Cry. It isn’t that hard to pick one or the other.” Cain connected one needle into the end of the syringe as he spoke, squeezing the plunger to release any air from the thin tube within the metal.  
The second needle, however, he kept.  
  
Cry swallowed thickly. “I- I won’t do it. Not if I don’t know what this is for.” He managed to get out. His throat flared up at the forced words and he coughed, raising one hand to his neck in an attempt to soothe the pain that came with it.  
  
Cain shook his head amusedly.  
“Now, Cry. That was a wrong decision.” He said.  
  
In one quick movement, the long needle was brought down into the flesh of the back of Cry’s palm. Cain heard the man’s shocked gasp as he realised what had just been done, and he took the opportunity to pierce the needle deeper into the hand Cry had been resting on the table, grinning when he felt the metal hit wood.  
  
Cry’s throat went up in flames as he leaned forward, forehead touching the pop filter of the microphone, and screamed.


	5. Player Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark sprinted to the still-open back door, slipping outside as the sight of the retriever splashing about in the chlorinated water met his eyes, the red liquid that surrounded his dog sending him into a panic.

Tossing the peeler back into the half-filled sink, Markiplier shook his hands, watching droplets of water splash across his sink before simply wiping the water onto his ‘lucky flannel’.

Moving to cut the potatoes he’d just peeled, the YouTuber stopped, placing the vegetable on the bench gently as he turned his head, the ever-so-quiet yapping of Chica reaching his ears from his backyard.

Positive that the dog had been sleeping in his bedroom mere minutes ago, Mark left his kitchen, brown eyes gazing through his large, glass backdoors, seeing the retriever simply barking at the water and wagging her tail, Mark smiled and shook his head, seeing that she’d managed to force the door open with her muzzle and was now sniffing around the edge of the body of water.

Returning to the kitchen, Mark grasped the nearby kettle and popped the lid open, half-filling it before placing it back on its’ base and flicking the button, hearing it immediately heat up to life.

Sweeping a cup from behind the sink, he tipped a heaped teaspoon of instant coffee powder into the mug, pursing his lips and sighing as his attempt to add sugar ended with the sand-like grains scattered across the marble bench top and sticking to the fabric of his flannel, the white of the sugar obviously visible against the red of his shirt

Running his hands down his shirt to brush it off, the YouTuber stopped, hearing Chica’s playful yapping transition into a howl before being followed by a loud splash.

Cursing, Mark sprinted to the still-open back door, slipping outside as the sight of the retriever splashing about in the chlorinated water met his eyes, the red liquid that surrounded his dog sending him into a panic.

Dropping to his knees beside Chica, he wrestled the hyperactive mutt back out of the pool, hot tears fogging up his glasses and blurring his vision as his shaking hands flew through the dog’s fur, searching where the source of the blood in the pool could have come from.

\--

Watching from the cover of shadows, a man stood, arms crossed over his stocky chest, a calculative grin etched into his face as he surveyed his target and his dog.

\--

Before he knew what happened, Mark found himself on his back, Chica playfully jumping onto his chest and licking his face, knocking his glasses askew.

Confused and flustered, Mark nudged the dog off of his chest, rolling to his side and pushing himself to his feet before something in the pool caught his eye.

An empty bottle of food dye.

Realising that this meant he was in no way alone, the YouTuber pushed Chica to run inside, chasing after her as he whipped out his phone, fingers flying across the screen, he pulled up the phone app, dialling 911. Before he had the chance to hit ‘call’, the sound of boots splashing in the thin layer of water that the retriever had shaken from her fur onto the deck reached his ears before a pair of hands connected with his back, causing him to smash his left shoulder on the glass door, stumbling over the sliding door rail, Mark was sent sprawling to the ground, his phone shattering as it skittered along the floor before smashing to a stop against the wall.

Rolling to his back, Mark didn’t have a chance to react before a hand flew towards his face, grabbing the collar of his flannel and choking him as he was wrestled to his feet.

Hands flying up to grab the wrists of his attacker, the YouTuber found himself frantically stumbling to keep his footing as he was pushed backwards, a wall coming up much too fast to meet his back.

Hissing in pain through his clenched teeth, Mark swayed as black danced across his vision, the broken plaster of the wall behind him digging into his shoulder blades.

Out of breath, he forced his eyes open, immediately met with the grinning face of his assailant, his narrowed, dark blue eyes were at level with his own brown ones and his dirty blonde hair looked like it had been slicked back with a handful of gel, his greasy face was much too close to Mark’s own and the clear smell of cigarette smoke was making him sick.

Gritting his teeth, Mark pushed against the intruder, arms shaking at the effort of shoving the burly man away.

Grasping at the few seconds he had bought himself, the YouTuber ran into the kitchen, as heavy footsteps chased him into the room. Spinning to face the assailant, his arm flew out and grabbed the closest thing to him in a panic, his fingers curling around the handle of the cup he’d set down earlier.

Using the split second he had before the man barrelled into him, Mark swung the cup at his head, cringing at the noise as the ceramic handle broke, the rest falling to the ground and shattering, coffee granules, sugar and pieces of cup littered the floor, followed by a few small droplets of blood from the new gash across the blonde’s cheekbone.

Adrenaline numbed Mark’s senses and dulled the explosion of pain from his lower back as he was tackled into the bench behind him, the protruding marble digging into his already bruising back.

With a delayed whine of agony, the YouTuber curled forward, wrapping his arms around his waist and coughing harshly, a thin line of blood crept over his bottom lip before he pulled his eyes away from the floor and onto the burly man in front of him, his short, blonde hair now matted with blood.

Mark didn’t have a chance to move before the others blood-soaked hand found itself tangled in his hair, pulling him away from the bench before throwing him to the side, where he tripped over the other’s extended foot and hit the ground hard, sharp pieces of ceramic digging into his right side and biting at his palms as he scrambled to his feet, glasses askew and hair hanging low over his eyes, the YouTuber’s blotchy vision threw him off balance, though not as off balance as the man that had just shirt-fronted him, knocking the two of them to the ground.

Groaning as he pushed the excessive weight of the man off of his chest, Mark opened his eyes to find his attacker struggling to his feet using the bench as a handhold.

Cursing at his position still on the floor, Mark hissed through clenched teeth as he tucked his arms under his chest, pushing himself to his knees.

The sound of the slowly boiling kettle had gone mostly unnoticed by the two as they fought.

That was until the button clicked and grabbed the attention of the blonde.

He watched from the corner of his eye at his target as he slowly struggled to his feet.

Grabbing the handle of the kettle, he grinned, ripping it from its base and watching it fly across the small space of the kitchen before smashing into the cupboard in front of Mark, the YouTuber barely managed to cover his face with his arms before the boiling liquid drenched his clothing, the heat crawling around his arms and down his back, splashing his legs as he threw himself backwards with an elongated scream.

With his main focus of tearing the burning, soaked flannel over-shirt off of him, Mark' adrenaline hyped mind over-registered the arm that snaked across his neck, the smallest touch sending the brunette into a confused frenzy as his fingers raked across the arm grabbing him in a chokehold before a helpless whimper escaped him as he was wrenched to his feet.

Seconds felt like minutes as Mark struggled in the arms of his larger attacker.

Allowing the YouTuber a second to wear himself out more, the heavily breathing intruder slipped his free hand up to the side of Mark’s neck, fingers searching for the pressure point that he knew was there.

Upon finding it, he began to apply pressure, leaning in so his mouth rested beside his ear.

“Jeeze, Player Three, no need to get so worked up. It’s only a game, mate.” He whispered, a sardonic smile stretching across his gums as he attacked the pressure point aggressively, feeling the other convulse twice and cry out before collapsing to the floor with a thud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehehe  
> Sorrynotsorry  
> -Chase


	6. Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A swift kick to the side of his ribs had Mark curling in on himself, more out of shock than the force of the kick.  
> "You gonna say that again? Come on, I dare you"

Mark was ripped from his vacant-eyed daze by noise.  
The tail-end of what he could only guess was a human scream.  
The high pitched squeal of mic feedback. Metal on metal. Clanging sounds, then a door swung open. Cushions on both door and wall - same as the padded wall Mark rested against - killed any sound that might have rung out. The movement jostled Mark further from his groggy stupor and into a harshly-lit reality. The light was too bright, too sharp for his pained eyes. His head felt swollen, threatening to crack his skull from the pressure.  
When he was finally able to open his eyes wider than pinpricks, Mark noticed boots by the open door.  
Someone had entered the room.

The boots began to blur as they moved closer to him, small glints of silver buckles catching his eye. When they came back into focus, they were planted in front of his own outstretched legs.  
Mark looked up slowly, very slowly. His caution outweighed his curiosity as he tilted his neck back, head throbbing with each stretch of muscle.

Mark heard the man clear his throat, then a clear, surprisingly pleasant voice hit his ears. The face that went with it was seemingly normal, too.  
The words he spoke, however, were much more threatening than his appearance let on.

“Mark Fischbach. I am not in a great mood, so I will spare you the ‘Welcome’ speech for my own benefit. I do, however, have something I need you to take.” Fingers curled like tendrils around the lapels of a long black coat. Mark stared on, barely comprehending what the man just said.

“What?” He whispered.

A swift kick to the side of his ribs had Mark curling in on himself, more out of shock than the force of the kick. The tall man leaned down to grab Mark’s hair and used it to pull his head forward before slamming it backward into the wall. Once, twice, three times.  
Letting out a frustrated growl, the man straightened up.

“You gonna say ‘what’ again? I dare you. Come on.” He said. Fingers gripped the lapels tighter, pulling them away from his body slightly to allow Mark to see a hilted knife attached to the hem of the man’s jeans.  
Whether this was intentional or not, it made Mark’s blood run cold.

“Oh, you’re quiet now? Good. I told you I wasn’t in the best of moods, Fischbach.” The man’s voice lowered to an unnerving quiet, “Don’t test me.”

He couldn’t stop it. His mind was reeling.  
“...What?”

Bracing himself for another kick, Mark noticed a woman standing in the doorway.  
“Cain! Back off, alright? This one took quite a beating when he was brought in, so cut the shit.” She said loudly. Not quite a scolding, but it was firm enough to get the man - Cain? - to step back.  
The woman held a folded white cloth in one hand and brushed her fingers through her long hair with the other. She was small, not only short but slender, too. The ridges of her collarbone peeked out from where the buttons were undone around the collar. She paid no attention to Mark whatsoever, her eyes not leaving Cain’s back.  
She seemed...scary. For someone so small, she had quite a presence.

Without fully turning his head, Cain said, “What are you doing in here, Lauren?”

The woman walked over to Mark and kneeled at his side. From up close, he could see that what she was holding wasn’t a bed sheet like he first thought. It was some kind of medical pack, wrapped up in a surgical cloth. Oh god...were they-

“I’m filling in for Nurse Joy, Cain. Now get out. I have shit to do and you need to check on the green-haired twink in the next room.” Lauren laid down the package as she spoke, her hand hovering over a square of gauze.  
Cain huffed, and in a movement he was out of the door, slamming it behind him.  
The hinge locked into place with a click.

Twink?  
Green hair?  
Jack had green hair.

Mark froze.  
No.  
There were of plenty of people with dyed hair, surely they weren’t talking about Jack. Not his Jack. Not his friend Jack...no. No, surely not.

A sting in his forearm pulled Mark from his thoughts. What the fuck?  
“Sorry, handsome. Just checking for...nerve damage.” Lauren smiled as she pulled the thin needle she had just stuck him with out of his arm and placed it on the white cloth.  
“Need to make sure you’re fully functional after the shit one of the orderlies pulled while you were unconscious.”

While he was unconscious? What the fuck had happened while he was out?  
“I...What is...What?” Mark said, his speech impediment making itself apparent through the fumbled ‘s’.  
Lauren swiped her fingers along Mark’s cheek in what he assumed was meant to be a comforting gesture, but it sent a sick feeling to his stomach. Mark leaned away, not noticing the smile drop from the woman’s face. She removed her hand, nicking the skin of his chin with her sharp nails as she did so.

“Take your shirt off, hon.” Lauren said flatly.

Mark looked at the needle tipped in his blood she was lightly tapping against her thumb and shook his head.  
“Tell me where I am first.” He said, his voice only just raising above the whisper it had been.

The hand holding the needle moved toward him, and Mark instinctively knocked her arm away, causing the instrument to drop onto the padded floor.

Lauren glared at him, her eyes telling murder.  
“You listen to me, honey. I ain’t as harsh as big bad Cain, but if you make it difficult for me to check you I’ll make it just as difficult for you. Ya got it? Now take your fucking shirt of before I do it for you, and believe you me it’s gonna hurt. I don’t give a fuck if I’m meant to be patching you up. You better not give me as much shit as that Irish fucker did when I had to check him out.”

Mark’s head whipped up at that. Irish. Green-haired and Irish. It was Jack. It had to be Jack she was talking about. But why would they have him, too? She had said she was in a room beside his? Was he really that close?

“Your friend, huh?” Lauren chuckled - a dark, low noise. It was not a happy sound. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that little spark in your eye, darling. Oh, yeah. We have Jack. Delightful little bastard, he is.” She let out a sarcastic snort before reaching for the hem of Mark’s t-shirt. They made eye contact and Lauren grinned, like she was daring him to do something. With some reluctance, Mark raised his arms and allowed the woman to pull the shirt up and off his body.

“Your hair is like his, nice and bright. It’ll show up nice on camera...almost like you two were preparing for this, isn’t it, handsome?”  
Lauren ran her cold palms over the side of his ribs, feeling for lumps or bumps or any abnormalities to be worried about.  
Next, she checked the bruises on his front, his legs, his knuckles.

In a few minutes, she had put a few small squares of gauze covered in balm on the small burns around his shoulders, secured with thin paper tape.  
Mark said nothing when he was told to put his shirt back on, and that he was lucky his ribs weren’t broken. Yet.  
All he could think about was his friend in the next room. He had to know if he was hurt, if Cain or anyone else had done something to him.  
Lauren broke his concentration by waving the re-wrapped cloth in front of his face. He wished she would just go away. The sick smile she wore and the smell of antiseptic coming her hands was getting all too much. She made him uneasy just by being in the same room.

“I’ve got things I gotta do, honey, so I’m gonna have to leave you here.” Lauren moved to the door, using one hand to unlatch the door and the other to wiggle her fingers at him in a wave. “I’ll see you in the next video, Marky...Buh-bye.”

With those words, she left. The bright lights were switched off, and he was left in the dull glow of a dangling lightbulb. Mark heard the door close behind her.  
The hinge locked into place with a click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
>  
> 
> i realise cain is out of character (for how chase and i imagine him), so he'll be reigned in a bit through later chapters, but he'll get his agression out in other ways, don't you worry.  
> also who is excited for lauren, eh? eh?  
> \- ghost (rocky)


	7. Player Four

Throwing himself back onto his bed with a yawn, internet phenomenon ‘Pewdiepie’, was ready to fall asleep, his girlfriend having left a few minutes earlier.  
Reaching his hand up to turn off his lamp, the Swede paused at the sound of knocking from the front door.  
  
Surely Marzia wasn’t back already?

  
Reluctantly rolling out of bed, Felix brushed his fingers through his hair, making his way downstairs to the front door, stifling yet another yawn as he unlocked the deadbolt, stepping back as he pulled the door open.

  
‘What’d you forget this time?’ He laughed, peeking out from behind the door, the smile on his face vanishing.  
That wasn’t Marzia.  
  
In a failed attempt to slam the door closed on the unwanted intruder, Felix stumbled back, blindsided as he was hit across the jaw, his vision going blotchy.  
  
Stumbling back against the wall, Felix tried to blink away the black spots dancing across his vision and missed the hand flying out to grab his collar, hauling him away from the wall and into the lounge room, his momentum only stopped by the –rather hard- back of the couch.  
  
With a confused noise of pain, Felix scrambled to his feet, flying halfway up the stairs before a chuckle was heard from behind him and he felt a grip around his ankle, pulling it out from under him.

  
The stairs came up to meet him in a rush as he fell and he barely had the time to catch himself on his arms, the smooth, polished wood angry against his skin.  
‘Sorry Felix, normally we’d play around a bit, do a little game of “cat and mouse”, but I’m sorry to say that just won’t be possible, we’re already running late,’ Gritting his teeth, Felix turned his head and peered out from under his fringe at the man beside him on the staircase, taking the time to catch his breath and take in the man before him, his short, dirty blonde hair stuck up every which way and hung down as a fringe over his bright blue eyes, he wasn’t too tall, but he clearly had a few inches up on Felix, and to top off the intimidation factor; the boy – he looked too young to be called anything else – was swimming in a black hoodie and baggy jeans.  
Before Felix even had the chance to do anything more than get on his hands and knees, the wind was knocked out of him once again as a sharp kick was delivered to his stomach, knocking him against the railing, the wood creaking under the sudden extra weight.

  
‘Don’t try and fight back please, I have a meeting to get to,’ Came an overly sarcastic quip from the man as Felix pulled himself to his feet, shoving his hands forward and pushing the boy away from him and into the wall.

  
The narrow area of the staircase worked against both men as blows were traded, though it was clear that Felix, scrawnier in build, wasn’t going to win this one anytime soon, proved most toughly as his body was tossed down the stairs, crumpling to the group in a heap, his head only narrowly avoiding hitting the hardwood flooring.  
Shaking, the Swede got to his feet, his eyes darting around for the phone he knew he’d left _somewhere_.

  
Taking the YouTuber’s momentary distraction as it was presented, the boy jumped forward, his bony fingers wrapping easily around Felix’s throat, the force sending him stumbling back and into the nearest wall, cracking the thin plaster.

  
‘I told you,’ Huffed he huffed, applying enough pressure to force Felix to claw at his arm, ‘To stop resisting, dammit.’ He growled, pain ebbing from a spot on his lower back where Felix had managed to get the upper hand earlier and slam him against the stair railing, though the blow was quickly returned with a swift knee to the stomach.

  
Felix knew he wouldn’t be able to get away, not with the amount of effort he was exerting just to be able to stay on his feet, anyway, so with a final attempt at freeing himself, he brought his leg up and kicked, his foot impacting with the other’s knee, paining him enough to allow him to scramble away and catch his breath, snatching up the phone that he’d finally spotted on the floor before a deafening bang rang through the house and he found himself on the floor, phone skittering away from him as he blocked his ears to try and get rid of the ringing in his eardrums.

  
Eyes wide and head foggy, Felix pulled his hand away from his head slowly, blood sticking to his face as he brought it into his line of vision.

  
He was left for a quiet few seconds as his brain scrambled to register the fact that the large noise was that of a gun being shot, and that that gun had shot a bullet that had succeeded in not only destroying his phone as he brought it to his ear, but in tearing into the flesh of his cheek, brushing against his face as it whizzed past.

  
The pain was slowly becoming excruciating, a hot, tingling, burning sensation spread across the entire left side of his face and he found himself unable to move any more than a jolt as a cool had covered his mouth, fingertips just brushing his bloodied cheek, muffling the scream he didn’t know he was making.

  
Ignoring the blood that was persistently pouring from Felix’s face over his hand, the hooded teen was happy to wait out the time it took until he passed out, whether it was from exhaustion or the pain of having a bullet rip through his left cheekbone, he didn’t know, nor did he particularly care.

  
Gathering the slightly smaller body ungracefully into his arms, the teen sighed and struggled to carry him out of the house, practically glowering at the unconscious man as he was thrown into the back of the ‘getaway vehicle’.

  
'You were a fucking pain in the ass, you know that? You have no idea how much I can't wait to see what Cain does to you.' He muttered, more to himself than the unconscious figure of Felix in the back.

  
'Welcome to the game, motherfucker.'


	8. Players Selected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's been chloroformed.  
> Cry was asphyxiated.  
> Mark's been beaten,  
> And now Felix's been shot.  
> All the players have been selected, and now it's time to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOWWWWW  
> It's been,,  
> what?  
> A year??  
> More????  
> Buuut we're back bitches.  
> Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos, it took a while, but it did finally get us moving.  
> enjoy  
> (Also we've completely re-written the first and second chapters)  
> -chase

 

The wall behind him was growing increasingly more uncomfortable.

 

Despite its padding, his back and shoulder ached against it, protesting against his own will to stay as still as possible. The longer he pretended to remain comatose, the stronger the throb of his muscles became.

The abrasion along Felix’s cheekbone hadn’t let down in its quiet agony for the full time he’d been…wherever he was. Which at this point would have had to have been at least an hour.

He didn’t know where he was, or why he was there, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the soft breathing from the other side of the room wasn't his own. And it was safe to assume that they weren't there to throw him a surprise un-birthday party.

 

This wasn’t good.

 

He was in danger.

 

 

The pain from the graze along his check had been steadily growing worse the longer he remained where he was. It crept like a spider up into his temples and tore into at his jaw like a vicious mistress, but he didn’t dare bring up his hands to touch it. The breathing, stifled by the room, was terse and forced. Like a sigh. Frustration.

Keeping his eyes from roaming around while they were closed was maybe the hardest thing for him to do at the moment. If he’d learned anything from watching Marzia as she fell asleep, forcing herself to be still and just rest, to overcome her insomnia, it was that she was only truly asleep when her eyes stopped quivering, and finally stilled.

 

Oh, God-

 

Marzia.

 

What if whoever had him had her too?

The thought hadn’t hit him as fully as it did in that moment, and the sudden fear; not for himself, but for his girlfriend- his best friend – sent a shiver through his spine.

Unfortunately for him, the shiver wasn’t a metaphorical one. His back shook, and the movement made his jaw ache.

Fuck.

 

The breathing turned to words, a voice, clear and distinct. Female.

“Ah, so you’re finally awake.”

 

Fuck.

Footsteps – light, and quick – brought the owner of the voice over to him, lip quivering like he was seven and had crashed into his Mormor’s liquor cabinet playing catch with his cousins, and she was drunk and swearing Swedish in his face. Too nervous to breathe in.

It was a mere second before calloused fingers and feminine nails gently cupped his jaw, the subtle movement sending his mind into a frenzy at the new wave of pain.

Felix jerked his head back instinctively, cursing himself as his skull hit the padded wall behind him. He was in a literal corner.

Blue eyes flew open, only to be met with an eyeful of curly red hair- a red that was much too bright for his pain-addled mind to appreciate at the moment.

 

‘Felix, right? You’ve been asleep for a long while.”

There was a low chuckle that held no humor. This was amusing?

 

“You’re aware that if it weren’t for your captor's indignant idiocy and this,” Her fingers brushed across the gauze taped to his cheek, as though he needed her to point out that he’d literally been shot in the fucking face, inciting a stab of pain as sharp as her fingernails. Cain  would have had me wake you up much earlier” The woman spoke again. “It’s a good thing I’m patient.”

 

At this, she leant in, as though to kiss him, bite him, Felix was unsure.

Felix inhaled quickly, bracing himself for the intimacy he hadn’t asked for.

But her lips never touched his skin.

Instead, they pressed too close to the shell of his ear, and Felix wanted to vomit when words and warm air passed through him.

‘Because, honey, I don’t know if you think I’m an infant, or just stupid; ‘cause I’m fully aware of the fact that you weren’t asleep for a second.’

 

An audible buzz, both familiar and confusing.

Felix looked up, and his eyes settled on a black mass above him.

 

That’s when the speaker in the corner crackled to life with a deafening scream.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--
> 
> short chapter to get back into the groove. we're currently editing our existing chapters to make it flow a bit better and get into the habit of writing again.
> 
> also: yes, we know, it has been a very long time! we love all your comments, but please make sure you're adding a bit more than simply 'update soon'.  
> we appreciate the love for the story so far.  
> 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Into the Redroom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883733) by [SecretWorthKeeping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretWorthKeeping/pseuds/SecretWorthKeeping)




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